


Takeout Christmas

by potentiality_26



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Mentions of Artie/Lily, Mentions of Murder, Neighbors, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Artie had turned out to be a phenomenal cook, so it had been easy for Jim to say that he was happy to go to Artie’s place for dinner whenever he wasn’t too busy, or otherwise engaged.  It had even been fairly easy to pretend that he wouldn’t have said the exact same thing if Artie had turned out to be a terrible cook.</i>  </p><p>Modern AU: Jim and Artie are next door neighbors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takeout Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Neighbors A.U. prompt. In case it isn't information you keep in your head, Haruko Ishuda is the Japanese secret service agent from "The Night of the Deadly Blossom" and Lily Fortune is the woman Artie asks to marry him in "The Night of the Big Blast."

Jim lingered in the hallway for several minutes, hesitating. He scuffed the carpet outside Artie’s apartment and listened. Difficult as it was to go anywhere without hearing some holiday jingle or other this time of year, nothing of the kind was audible through the door. Jim heard neither laughter nor movement inside, as he would have expected to if Artie had guests, or was even at home; he didn’t hear much of anything.  

He told himself that Artie was most likely _not_ at home, though where he might be if he wasn’t Jim couldn’t say.  He wouldn’t be with relatives- those few he had left lived several states away, and if Artie had gone out of town he would have told Jim; Jim had his spare keys and fed his cat when he was visiting one of his many far-flung cousins or his Aunt Maud.  But it was Christmas and Jim told himself that Artie had to be somewhere, maybe with Lily. That Artie might be with his ex-wife wasn’t actually as strange a possibility as it sounded.

If Artie _was_ out with Lily- or maybe with someone else entirely, some woman Jim hadn’t met- Jim could slip inside the apartment with his spare key, leave the package he held in his hands on the kitchen table, and go. This seemed to him the only tolerable possibility.

In fact, Jim became so fond of the notion that he started walking away- back to his own apartment where the key was kept- almost the moment he had knocked on the door. But then he made himself stop and wait, at least for a moment.

Sweat from his palm curled and marred the festive wrapping paper on the little package, and small as it was it felt heavy. 

It felt like a stupid idea, another in a long line of stupid ideas he’d had since he fell in love with his next door neighbor.

*   *   *

Artemus Gordon had moved in almost a year ago to the day- only a few days after Christmas. 

His was a small apartment, and rumor had it that he was divorced, so Jim had just assumed that the nice, doe-eyed woman and the cheerful but soft-spoken man he saw helping Artie move in those first few days were two of the man’s friends.  They _were_ both approximately Artie’s age.  Jim had learned later that the woman was in fact Artie’s ex-wife. Her name was Lily Fortune; she worked on Broadway and was apparently reasonably famous, though Jim didn’t pay a lot of attention to things like that. The man was- amazingly- Lily’s stepfather Lyle, a fact which only amazed Jim more when he met Lily’s mother, a woman who could and did complain quite loudly about pretty much everything under the sun.

Jim had never known a man to be on such excellent terms with the woman he was divorced from- let alone with the rest of her family- before. Then again, he’d never known anyone like Artie before either.

After Artie moved in, Jim had seen him coming and going a few times. He had acknowledged that Artie was attractive in the distant, ultimately unimportant way he had conditioned himself to find men attractive since he entered basic training, and had assumed that he wouldn’t see any more of Artie than he had of his previous neighbor, the elderly and cantankerous Mr. Fairchild.  Since basic training, Jim had done two tours of duty, returned to the states and become a police officer; he was a detective now, and he all but lived at the precinct, so this wasn’t an entirely silly thing for him to assume.

But then, a couple of days after he’d fully settled in, Artie had stopped by Jim’s apartment.  He’d been wearing a sweater vest and blushing faintly.  Jim had thought that Artie was very possibly the most adorable man he had ever seen. 

“Hi,” Artie had said.  “It’s… Jim West, right?  I’m Artemus Gordon. Artie.”

“I know who you are,” Jim had said, shaking the other man’s hand anyway.

“Good.  That’s- that’s good. Look, I…” Artie had trailed off then, his expression taking on a kind of strained quality. “It’s been a long time since I last cooked for one and it turns out I’m not really very good at it anymore.  I wondered if you might- maybe- like some dinner.”

Jim had glanced at the clock above the mantle and found that it was indeed dinnertime and that he was indeed hungry, so he'd said, “All right.”

Really, he should have known from the way his heart had done an acrobatic routine in his chest when Artie smiled that it wouldn’t end there, and it hadn’t.

They had gone back to Artie’s apartment to eat, and Artie had turned out to be a phenomenal cook, so it had been easy for Jim to say that he was happy to go to Artie’s place for dinner whenever he wasn’t too busy, or otherwise engaged.  It had even been fairly easy to pretend that he wouldn’t have said the exact same thing if Artie had turned out to be a terrible cook. 

Jim had loved Artie’s apartment from the first. It was cozy. It was… full, without seeming cluttered- whereas Jim’s had always looked more like an army barracks than a home: impersonal and limited only to the essentials. Artie’s apartment, though, seemed to Jim much as Artie himself had done from the very beginning: comfortable, welcoming, just slightly exotic without being off-putting. The place was all warm colors and overstuffed furniture; most of the surfaces were garnished with knick-knacks from all over the world.

“What is it you do?” Jim had asked that first night, looking around.

Artie had noticed Jim’s broad line of sight and laughed quietly. “I’ve been all over,” he’d said. “Doing all kinds of things.” Normally, such a vague answer would have upset Jim’s detective’s sensibilities, but from Artie he had found that he didn’t mind it at all. “I got a job teaching drama not far from here,” Artie had added, waving Jim over to the table. “Have a seat. I’ll be just through here.”

“At least let me help set the table.”

“Oh, yes, all right.”

While he did so, Jim had searched for a way to start the conversation back up, although he had noticed that the silence was surprisingly comfortable. “Do you teach at a high school?”

“A college.”

“Isn’t it unusual to start midyear?”

“Unusual, yes. There was an incident with the Scottish play, I gather.” Artie had said this as though it explained everything, and Jim hadn’t pressed. “And you’re a police detective, aren’t you? I have to admit I asked around.”

“Yes.”

“Anything you can talk about?” By then, everything was laid out and they were both seated. Any too-grisly story was obviously off the table- not that Jim would have brought such a thing up anyway- but he did have a few reasonably amusing anecdotes saved up- and from that moment it seemed the two of them never lacked for anything to talk about.

Besides being a little too handsome for Jim’s emotional wellbeing, Artie was also charming and funny. He was conversant in just about every subject, but despite how much he seemed to know about nearly everything, Artie never made Jim feel stupid. He never made Jim feel anything but at ease.

That too was a sign that Jim ought to have given more thought to in the beginning.  

Despite having never been an exceptionally social creature, Jim had already taken to considering theirs a standing engagement by New Years, and he didn’t miss it if he could possibly help it. Of course, Jim was still a busy man and a lot of the time he _couldn’t_ help it, so he only actually made it to dinner maybe twice in the average week. 

It was just as well; by New Years, a part of Jim had also already begun to want to see these dinners as more than Artie had ever implied- even ambiguously- that they were, and if he’d appeared with any more regularity than he actually did, Artie would probably have begun to figure that out.  No- not probably. Artie was, as Jim had learned quite early on, a highly intelligent man and he would _definitely_ have begun to figure it out. 

And the truth of the matter was that Artie really did have a volume problem. There was often more food than even the two of them together could polish off, and Jim was nothing if not an enthusiastic eater- but there was more to it than that.  If Jim was held up at work, he’d come home late to find neatly labeled Tupperware containers with anything from potato gnocchi with a browned butter sage sauce to jambalaya (yes, that was the kind of cook Artie was) already in his fridge.  He’d pack them for lunch, making them last several days if he could.  And as much as he wanted to believe that it all meant something, Jim didn’t think the evidence supported that theory.

Jim might have been the one Artie had invited to dinner, but he was also the one closest to hand- and Artie loved experimenting.  He made salads or kebabs or even pot pies with whatever was in season.  He tried a new ethnic dish every week.  He gave food at least once to what seemed to Jim nearly everyone he’d ever met. 

Jim wondered- aloud, sometimes, at the precinct- if maybe Artie found cooking therapeutic.     

“Everyone has something,” Jim’s partner, Jeremy Pike, had been ever-so-pleased to remind him on one such occasion.  “The same way you let the suspect escape so you can chase him.”

“I don’t let- Jerry, _one_ time!”

“Right,” Jeremy had agreed with his particular brand of cheery sarcasm.  “Or, maybe he just likes you to a degree that those of us who know you find completely astonishing.”  Jim had frowned at him skeptically.  “Really,” Jeremy insisted.  “If he was a Japanese woman, I’d consider the two of you engaged.”   Jeremy was an army brat who had spent most of his formative years being carted around Asia and the South Pacific, so he would know.  It really was unfortunate that he labored under the delusion that Jim found these kind of anecdotes illuminating.  Jim really, really didn’t. “Speaking of which- you should tell Artie that his tempura is great, but not quite right.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Jim had demanded.  It was his feeling that no one equipped with taste buds and a soul could possibly find fault with Artie’s cooking, so his tone contained more than a little hostility.

“Nothing, actually,” Jeremy had replied, eyes dancing the way they did when his internal twelve-year-old was about to start singing a song which contained the lyrics ‘sitting in a tree’ and the letters ‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’  “But if he doesn’t think there’s room for improvement, he won’t give me any more.”

Jim had made a rude gesture, but- since if he replaced ‘tempura’ with ‘tamales,’ this would be the same conversation he’d had with Detective Gonzalez about a week earlier- he’d had to reluctantly admit that in this one case Jeremy might have been on to something. 

Even so, Jim wished that he had never told Jeremy about Artie, never introduced them, never allowed Jeremy to come to an entirely correct conclusion about the nature of Jim’s feelings for the man- but really it was unavoidable.  A child would notice the way that Jim’s eyes unfailingly slid to the clock whenever he was held up at dinnertime, and Jeremy was a homicide detective, and- loathe though Jim was to admit it most of the time- a reasonably good one.

As the weeks had turned into months, Jim had had to remind himself with greater and greater frequency that Artie just liked to cook and tended to cook too much- and that if he was lonely it was a loneliness to be expected in a man who had been separated from the woman he had once believed would be his lifelong companion. 

“We got married just out of high school,” Artie would say of Lily.  “It seemed like a great idea at the time, but… it really wasn’t right.”  He had never seemed particularly saddened by the fact, but Jim resented Lily for leaving him all the same. He didn’t- couldn’t- understand how she had managed to do such a thing.

Jim loved Artie’s cooking, but more than that he loved Artie’s presence. He could sit still for hours and just listen to Artie talk- about his day, about music, movies or politics, even about his ex.  By the time the first year mark began to draw nigh, there were very few subjects about which Jim didn’t know the other man’s opinion as well as his own.  Sadly, these few subjects happened to be those about which Jim was most curious.     

He didn’t know if Artie considered them friends at this point, or if their relationship was still as it had begun to him- one, essentially, of convenience. 

He didn’t know if Artie planned on starting to date again- or when that might come to pass- and he desperately wanted to know, because it was safe to assume that when he did start dating, Artie wouldn’t need or want Jim to be around so much anymore.

And, of course, also because he very much wanted to be the one who Artie dated.    

*   *   *

Jim was still lingering in the hallway between their apartments, undecided, when he heard Artie’s voice and nearly jumped out of his skin.  “Just coming,” Artie called from inside.  He opened the door a moment later and blinked at Jim, clearly surprised to see him.  “Jim?  I didn’t think you were…”  He trailed off, shook his head sharply, and stood aside.  “Come in.”

For a moment, Jim lingered in the doorway anyway.  “You were expecting someone.”

Maybe Artie’s guests simply hadn’t arrived yet.  It was Christmas, after all- and Artie looked good, wearing nice slacks and a moss green sweater over a shirt and tie. Then again, Artie always looked good.

“Only the delivery man.  Come in,” he repeated, opening the door wider.

Jim obeyed, stepping inside after only a moment’s hesitation and glancing around. Artie hadn’t decorated for the holiday all that much.  There was a wreath here and a few cards there, some ornaments and colored lights strewn haphazardly about- but all of them were clearly gifts from other people instead of things Artie had bought for himself, so Jim didn’t think he was too enthusiastic about the season.  Jim had suspected as much before, of course, but it was good to have confirmation in that at least.

The other man had left a glass of red wine and a book of philosophy on the coffee table. At a loss for what to do, Jim perused the jacket of the book, as if he would understand its contents at all.

Artie said, “I guess I assumed you’d have plans, Jim.”

Jim set the book down again, confused. For a moment, it was on his tongue to ask who exactly he might have plans with today that he didn’t the other 365 days of the year.  Artie knew that Jim didn’t have any family, or many friends apart from his coworkers.

But then Jim remembered how often he’d canceled for work reasons- especially over the last few weeks- without saying why.  For one thing, he’d assumed that the work part was self-evident, obvious.  For another, he just didn’t like to tell Artie that he was about to spend the next few hours haranguing a nineteen year old girl into confessing that she had killed her new husband; he wanted to insulate the other man from that. 

But maybe- just maybe- Artie had thought that a few of those times, maybe even _most_ of those times, were dates.

Jim didn’t know what else he could possibly say, so he simply said, “No.”

Still hanging around beside the coffee table, Jim felt ill at ease in a way he hadn’t since the first time he’d come by for dinner.  Other than those times he’d dropped by to feed the cat while Artie was out of state, Jim had never been in this apartment when he couldn’t smell food cooking.  It made Jim wonder- suddenly- if he wasn’t the only one unsure of himself, the only who wanted this to be more and didn’t know how to ask for it. Maybe Artie too had been reading the signals all this time, unable to determine to his satisfaction that they meant one thing or the other.  Jim hadn’t exactly given Artie much to go on. 

“I thought you’d have plans too,” Jim admitted into that uncomfortable silence.

Looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, Artie eyed Jim curiously, as if to ask what he was doing here if he hadn’t thought that their usual ‘date’ was still on. 

“I… I got you this.”  Jim rather reluctantly set the present on the coffee table, next to the book and the glass of wine.

Artie stilled and eyed the package like it might explode.  “I didn’t get you anything."

Jim shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to,” he told Artie firmly.  Artie's orange tabby took the opportunity to coil around Jim’s legs, and Jim was happy to bend and scratch his head rather than continue watching Artie awkwardly. 

*   *   *

A couple of weeks before Christmas, Jim had spent about five minutes ogling a pocket watch in a store window.  It was silver, and of just the right size.  It was tooled with little flourishes that were elegant without being gaudy and eye-catching without being overly ornate.  It was clearly an antique, though it was still functional- and it was obvious to Jim that someone had owned that watch, that it had a history, a story.

It was, in short, perfect for Artie. 

“Then you should buy it,” Jeremy had told Jim off-handedly, as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves.

Shaking his head, Jim had managed to tear his eyes away from the watch.  If not for the dead body lying a few feet away from the store, he might have considered buying it even though it was entirely obvious that Artie neither expected nor anticipated any exchange of gifts- so it was really for the best that he _was_ at a crime scene and not on a shopping trip.  

"If the two of you are _quite_ finished dawdling..." Doctor Loveless, their M.E., had hollered caustically in Jim and Jeremy’s direction, “ _Some_ of us have jobs to do.” Jim had winced.  That little man had it out for him, Jim was sure he did.

Jeremy had taken Jim’s arm.  "He'd love it, right?"

“He would,” Jim had agreed sadly. Jeremy had given his arm a squeeze. Jim had accepted this attempt at comfort and then- hoping that would be the end of it- went to do his job.  

But then, after the case was closed, he’d gone back to that shop and bought the watch, and then a couple days after that he’d stowed it in a closet and resolved to never look at it again. 

Then, a couple days after _that_ , Jim had been lingering on the sidelines of their latest crime scene, watching Jeremy converse in rapid-fire Mandarin with one of the victim’s neighbors- an elderly Chinese woman who was, in Jim’s opinion, only pretending not to know any English.  She’d been astonished to the point of alarm when Jeremy had addressed her in her own language instead.  Jim had been enjoying the show- Jeremy’s interrogation tactics were even more entertaining than usual when Jim didn’t actually know what he was saying- when Detective Ishuda appeared at his side and asked him in her quiet, yet somehow sly, way what he had gotten his man for Christmas.   

Haruko Ishuda was from organized crime, and she was advising them on that particular case.  Jim had met her while she was undercover working for Adam Barkley- who, despite the name, was a high level gangster in Chinatown.  Jim liked Haruko immensely, and some of his fellow detectives had accordingly taken it into their heads to try to set him up with her.  Luckily, she found this amusing more than anything, especially after she had met Artie- otherwise, their colleagues increasingly silly matchmaking attempts could have been painfully awkward for both of them. As it was, only Jim seemed to mind.

Jim had flushed very slightly.  “I’m pretty sure he’s not mine,” he’d said.

Without so much as speaking a word, Haruko had managed to reply that Jim could argue semantics all he liked, but the principle of the question would still be sound. 

He’d told her about the watch, how he’d seen it and loved it, resolved not to get it and then bought it anyway- and squirreled it away, considering and then reconsidering the wisdom of giving it to Artie every ten minutes or so. 

She’d said, “You should go for it, Jim.”

“What are we talking about?” Jeremy had asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.   Jim had scowled at him.

“Jim’s Artemus,” Haruko had informed him.

“He’s not mine,” Jim had repeated, but it had fallen on deaf ears as Jeremy brightened. Artie had, of late, become one his favorite topics of conversation.

“Lady’s right,” Jeremy had said.  “Make like the Mountie and go get your man.”

The inanity of Jeremy’s advice aside, Jim had agreed at the time that there was no good reason not to at least try.

*   *   *

Jim could think of a million reasons now. Why were those two his friends anyway? Jim was thinking of creative ways to make both of them sorry they had ever gotten involved in the whole business when there was a knock at the door and Artie’s cat promptly made himself scarce.  Artie answered it and outside Jim saw small boy carrying a quantity of bags that- combined- had to weigh more than the boy himself did. 

Jim straightened, crossed to the door and took the bags while Artie paid the boy. 

Jim peered at the cartons inside the bag, smelling soy and sweet and sour sauce.  “Chinese takeout?” he asked when they were left alone again.  He had trouble imagining someone as good in the kitchen as Artie was ordering takeout. 

Artie shrugged.  “You know how they say Jewish people eat Chinese takeout for Christmas?”

“I didn’t know you were Jewish,” Jim said.  They hadn’t talked a great deal about religion, but it had been Jim’s understanding that though Artie did believe in God he took issue with much of organized religion.

“I’m not, really,” Artie replied.  “But my family couldn’t afford much in the way of a holiday celebration when I was growing up, and takeout was actually a big treat for us.  My parents thought that having a tradition- whatever it was- was better than nothing and I’ve always thought they were right.  Lily and her mother liked a big to-do, and I didn’t _mind_ that exactly, but I also… well, I missed this.”   He gestured at the little white and red boxes and cleared his through.  “If you don’t- you should stay.  There’s more than enough for both of us.”

Jim thought about telling Artie how he felt about him all the time- mainly because, in his fantasies, the declaration was followed by Artie saying, “Oh, thank god,” and promptly becoming better acquainted with the inside of Jim’s mouth.  But in that moment, Jim didn’t even think about whether or not Artie felt the same- he just wanted to tell Artie the truth so that Artie would know that he didn’t have to qualify an invitation like that one with, ‘There’s more than enough.’  So that he would know that Jim just wanted to be with him, all the time and for any reason. That every little thing Jim learned about Artie- including the fact that despite being the best cook Jim had ever had the privilege of meeting he still ordered Chinese takeout on Christmas because that was what his family did when he was a little boy- just made Jim crazier about him.

So Jim almost said it.  He opened his mouth to say it, but in the end he was still a damned coward, so he just said, “Thanks,” and helped Artie set the table. 

When everything was laid out, Jim served himself some orange chicken.  It was cloyingly sweet and had a fishy flavor to it.  “This is good,” he said, chewing and then chewing some more. The texture was less than stellar.

Artie laughed, but the sound of it was a little strained.  “I’d hate to think that same spirit has been in all the compliments you’ve given me.  It isn’t, really.  I know that. But the place is close by and they’re such nice people. They need the business.” 

Jim understood why Artie was so uncomfortable now, and again he tried to make himself say something.  Artie didn’t think Jim would want to stay for the kind of bad takeout he and Jeremy would normally order for a late night working a case.  But again, Jim didn’t speak- he just kept eating, fairly sure the flavor would grow on him.  Eventually, he was rewarded when Artie relaxed slightly and launched into an anecdote about the antics of one of his students.  Just like that, Jim felt better; it had never been the gourmet he came for, but the company.    

And the company, as always, was wonderful.  Artie did all the voices when he told stories, and he gestured fancifully with his utensils as he talked.  It turned out this was even better with chopsticks than a fork and knife.  Artie had a gift for humorous anecdotes, but he could have talked about anything in the world and made Jim smile.  Jim loved his voice better than almost any other sound he’d ever heard. 

After dinner, Jim helped clear the table and wash the dishes. After that, there was nothing left for Artie to do but open his gift, and Jim’s gut churned unpleasantly. He went to stand by the window; even though things had evened out over dinner, become easy between them again, Jim still wasn’t sure he wanted to see Artie’s face.

The window had a nice view of the people going about their business down on the snowy street, but in the end Jim was far too busy thinking about Artie- _worrying_ about Artie- to appreciate it. He heard the wrapping paper crinkling, and- faintly- Artie’s breath, but Artie never said a word.

Then, after a while, Artie’s footsteps approached him and he settled at Jim’s side, close enough to touch. Close enough for Jim to feel the warmth he radiated.

“You didn’t take your fortune cookie,” Artie said.

Jim glanced Artie’s way and saw the cookie in question sitting in the palm of his outstretched hand.  Jim took it and opened it mechanically. As he cracked it open, Jim caught himself hoping that the tiny strip of paper concealed within would say something useful, like, ‘Take the plunge’ or, in the other direction, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’  Instead, it said, ‘A feeling is an idea with roots,’ which made no sense at all to Jim.  He told Artie so, and the older man smiled, chuckled.  Jim _ached._ Without meaning to, he reached out just as Artie began to turn away. Unable to draw back, Jim gripped his fingers instead.

Artie stopped short. “Yeah?” he asked, meeting Jim’s eyes.  Did he sound… hopeful? Jim honestly didn’t think he could tell anymore, but he decided that his Christmas present to himself ought to be the final resolution of the whole miserable business.  The knowledge of what Artie wanted from him, one way or the other, and vice versa, once and for all. 

He leaned in and kissed Artie, cradling his cheek in one hand.  Artie didn’t move- not to push him away, not to draw him closer- and so at first all Jim confirmed was what he wanted, and in dismal truth he had known that much for some time.  He wanted Artie.  Artie’s mouth tasted like soy sauce and semi-stale fortune cookie, but it was perfect, warm and soft and wonderful. 

When Jim broke the kiss but stayed close, faintly trembling fingers brushing through Artie’s dark curls, Artie pressed their foreheads together, and that, Jim knew, was something.  All the same, he wished that Artie had decorated after all, because then there might be a convenient sprig of mistletoe on which Jim could blame the kiss, but he hadn’t and there wasn’t. 

“Jim,” Artie began softly, hesitantly.  “Have… have we been dating all this time?”

Jim swallowed the excuses and apologies on his tongue when he realized that Artie could have said, ‘Did you think we’d been dating all this time?’ but he hadn’t.  Rather, he had deliberately implied that if anyone had been missing the point, it wasn’t Jim.  In the face of that, only the truth would do. Jim swallowed. “I… I hoped so,” he replied.

“Me too,” Artie told him, though to Jim’s ears it did sound a bit like a question.

Happy surprise left Jim almost numb, and he merely raised an eyebrow at the other man.

Artie ducked his head, his mouth twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but warm and sweet and fond all the same.  “I mean, at first I just wanted to spend time with you.  How didn’t seem to matter all that much.  But then… then it did.”  Artie sighed.  His fingers pulled lightly at Jim’s sleeve. “Thank you for the watch, by the way.  It’s lovely.  I really wish I’d gotten you something.”

“You did,” Jim said, when he looked into Artie’s eyes and truly processed the fact that they were going to do this. He kissed Artie again, quickly, and laughed softly, joyfully. “Anyway, it’s not as though you don’t give me something all the time.”

“Okay.”  Artie laughed too.  Obviously he hadn’t ever thought of their dinners in that way, but he seemed to like that Jim did.  “But I’m getting you an anniversary present.” He pointed. “No objections.”

Jim grinned, feeling… giddy. Wonderful.  “And what constitutes our anniversary?” he asked.  “When we met?”

“Why, the first time we had dinner, of course.”  Artie's eyes twinkled. 

Still grinning, Jim kissed Artie again- and this time Artie wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulders and kissed him back.     


End file.
